


je jouis dans les pavés

by longhandnotebook



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: AU - Paris 1968, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Barricades, F/M, Female Enjolras, Fingerfucking, Genderswap, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, making out so the cops don't catch us
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25559320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longhandnotebook/pseuds/longhandnotebook
Summary: Well, if they were stuck, they were stuck – and no point making an enemy from someone who knew where they met. Who had even invited him? Enjolras looked around, counted the police and made a quick evaluation around how long they might be waiting here, and caught the end of Grantaire's sardonic smile as he recognised the calculation behind her eyes."At least another hour or two with me, I'm afraid," he said."Very well," Enjolras said.***Paris, spring 1968 AU. Enjolras is on her way home from a meeting in the Marais when she finds herself caught behind a barricade with some film students, some lawyers, and Grantaire. A few cigarettes and a few drinks later, they find themselves having to hide out a bit longer at Grantaire's place...
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 30





	je jouis dans les pavés

**Author's Note:**

> I was rereading catchpenny's excellent genderswapped Enjolras/Grantaire fic and realised just how very much I am into it when Grantaire is a bit annoying and also goes down on Enjolras. The best.

On a warm late April evening, Enjolras found herself behind a barricade in the Marais. She was stuck behind a pile of furniture and a church, waiting out the police on the other wise with a bunch of film students (give her strength), a half-dozen comrades she recognised from the 5th, a cluster of lawyers, and a tall graceless man with ripped jeans and tumescent brown hair. Shit – that drunk philosopher who kept popping up at meetings. Enjolras ducked her head and looked in her bag for a cigarette.

She'd been caught out getting home from a small meeting, preferring to walk from Arts et Métiers rather than spend the money on a metro ticket. It wasn't that Enjolras was an Essene for the cost of printing a few posters, but walking gave her time to think, and a feel for the readiness of the city. The barricade was a pleasant surprise, then an unpleasant one. At that very moment, she was carrying several actions from the meeting in her head, the kind it would not be sensible to commit to paper. It was annoying to be stuck there for so long, but it was a cooling early-summer night and there were less encouraging places to spend the evening; Enjolras resolved to make the most of it. First, quickly, she committed her tasks definitively to memory – arrange to carry thirty incendiaries to Butte-aux-Cailles, the mother of their geography; to pass a certain message to Feuilly at his place of work the next day; to pick up more cardstock and a roll of film, at different shops.

Those memorised, it would be acceptable to have quick quiet words with the Sorbonne comrades. Enjolras didn't know them so well, and didn't mind that; it's not generally helpful for such groups to know, and be seen to know, each other. So although she may have passed one or two of them on the stairs of a café, or at night somewhere else, she picked up as if they are strangers.

"Light?" she said, then, "Nice bag." They chatted amiably for a few moments, cautiously sharing news of mutual friends and pamphlets, and then Enjolras peeled off to finish her cigarette in peace.

Torches shone, in the blueing sky, across their faces. The group of lawyers waved cheerfully at the police. Enjolras exhaled a little laugh, to herself, at their confidence in the structures of the state, and knelt to pretend to check her bag, allowing her long blonde hair to fall casually in front of her eyes.

While down, she did a quick search anyway, by feel, for anything that might be incriminating. Footsteps tapped near her and Enjolras looked up: it was that man, the tall one. A name came into her mind, Grantaire, and she immediately knew it was correct, could remember the pedestrian pun and his drunken, repetitive insistence on it, louder in her hearing every time.

"Enjolras, right?" Grantaire said. His smile was a bit crooked, and his face slightly out of joint.

She rose smoothly with one movement, and his eyes widened a little, before narrowing into a sardonic set she recognised from the café. "I've heard you speak," he said.

Enjolras waited for him to go on. She wasn't going to be the one to name a place.

"At the Musain," he said, and oh, shit, it all came back.

"You had to be escorted home, the last time," she said. "Some friends had to peel you off the pavement."

"Not my fault, madame," he said. "Your illumination struck me with the force of a thousand cobblestones."

"That, and the bottle of brandy you had all to yourself," Enjolras said. She lowered her voice and kept his eyes with hers. "Look, pay attention – this is no place to be saying people's names out loud."

His eyes widened, and he looked genuinely contrite. "Shit, sorry," he said. "I'm not used to – sorry. Look – brandy?" Following her eyebrow, "Cigarette?"

Well, if they were stuck, they were stuck – and no point making an enemy from someone who knew where they met. Who had even invited him? Enjolras looked around, counted the police and made a quick evaluation around how long they might be waiting here, and caught the end of Grantaire's sardonic smile as he recognised the calculation behind her eyes.

"At least another hour or two with me, I'm afraid," he said.

"Very well," Enjolras said.

She accepted the cigarette.

Grantaire spent the next hour leaning against the wall while she stood with her arms folded, bringing her conversational topics like a persistent housecat, while Enjolras, intrigued then exasperated then a little angry, batted them away as it because clear he did not intend to take any of them seriously. The fall of Empire and self-determination of colonial states – it was hardly a victory in either direction if the choices were between Whitehall and Moscow. The protests against Dow – broadly a waste of time, though well meant, better spent on direct action. The Gaullist party – yes, annoying, though electoral politics will never be revolutionary. No, Enjolras did not believe that mutually assured destruction was effective. No, there was not 'something romantic' about nature reclaiming the earth from a self-immolated humanity. She had not seen the new Agnes Varda (though Enjolras was annoyed as she had intended to – the outdoor screening was teargassed). And no, she had absolutely no time at all for the Situationists.

Enjolras looked up to breathe and saw a much blacker sky, and many street lamps. The Sorbonne collective had long since slipped away, the lawyers had dismantled a route through the barricade and moved neatly on to the outdoor tables of the wine shop just past it, and only two film students were lingering – one holding a stack of flyers, the other shouldering a tripod, looking hopefully in their direction having overheard "Varda".

"Ugh," Enjolras said, with clarity of distaste, and dropped the end of her cigarette to the stones and stepped it out. Grantaire did the same.

"Well, goodbye," she said, sticking out her hand. "See you at the Musain sometime, maybe." She was a little surprised to hear herself saying so; probably a subconscious hope that even he might find illumination there.

Rather than shake her hand, he brought it to his lips and kissed it. "Pleasure sharing a barricade with you," he said, his hand lingering a little too long in hers, his fingertips warm and their pressure pleasant.

Enjolras swallowed, why she didn't know, and pulled her hand back. She brushed off her bag, pulled it over her head and slipped out, past a vertical sofa with a VIVE KARL MARX poster stuck to it, watching her step on the thrown-up pavement so as not to fall.

Grantaire did not do this, and tumbled with alarming alacrity. "For heaven's sake," Enjolras hissed, and returned to help him up. He looked sheepish.

She was about to say something scathing when a smaller cohort of the police returned, and the lights of the wine shop shortly went out.

Enjolras barely had time to register the gendarmerie's lockstep page and torches flaring before she reacted.

"Sorry about this," she said quickly, and pushed Grantaire against the wall, grabbed his hand and placed it firmly on her ass, and stood up on her toes in her boots and planted her mouth on his. Her hands were on both sides of his head, holding him to her, and her hair was around both of them – her black slacks and shirt could be anyone, any student, any artist – there was no risk of a positive identification.

Grantaire was very still, almost too still, and she lifted her mouth from his and whispered, "Look, it's only for a minute, all right?" and he swallowed, nodded and dipped it back under, his nose bumping against her cheek, his breath hot against her ear, before his lips replaced back on hers.

The police walked past them, the light playing on the wall behind them, and Enjolras let out a little sigh, loud enough to be heard and not misunderstood. Grantaire groaned, low in his throat, much quieter, and slipped his tongue into her mouth.

This was a surprise, but there was nothing to do about it – and goodness, he was good at this. Enjolras closed her eyes, just for a moment, and found herself breathing heavily, much more than expected. She broke the kiss again. "OK-" she said.

Grantaire slipped an arm around her waist and turned, placing her against the wall, his back covering both of them. "Can't see your face," he murmured, and bent his head, nipped her lip.

That drew a groan for real, which shocked Enjolras so much she bit it back. His hand holding her in place against her waist slipped down, lower, into the waistband of her slacks. Grantaire's cock was hard through his jeans, against her belly. She didn't mind, it was a natural physical reaction, but her own response was certainly far from expected – 

The lights and footsteps slipped by them, and Enjolras lifted her head and lingered, listening, and counting beats against her breath, waiting for it to return to normal.

"Look, my place is just around the corner from here," Grantaire said in her ear. "Would you permit – we could go back for a few hours. Until the coast is clear," he said quickly.

"Yes," she said, still counting heartbeats down and trying not to sound breathless, "yes, very well. Very sensible."

He put her hand into the crook of his elbow, like a gentleman, and she pulled it apart, to walk side by side without touching.

They reached an ancient-looking building that Haussman would have cursed to have missed, two or three minutes later.

"It's just here," Grantaire said. His hand shook putting the key in the lock. Drink, or nerves? Enjolras watched him without moving. He led her up four flights of narrow stairs to a wide landing and large double door, with a latch but no lock.

" _Chez moi, c'est chez toi,_ " he said, opening the door and waving ironically. It was one of those big-windowed single-room studios that she thought had been knocked down. No doubt it was lovely in summer, but at night the glass windows under the eaves gave the alarming feeling of being surveilled.

Following her look, Grantaire went to the eaves and pulled sheets over each of the windows, and Enjolras relaxed minutely. He stopped, and put a hand on the sink, where several paintbrushes were soaking, and seemed briefly lost.

"Uh, I can sleep on the floor," he said, and Enjolras said crisply, "There's no need for that." She wouldn't be staying longer than a few hours anyway; and anyway, for a young woman of her complexion and political inclinations, Paris at 3am alone was often safer than Paris at 8pm in a group. With today's police anyway.

Grantaire found his feet again, and knelt to rustle around under the sink. He produced a bottle of beaujolais, half drunk. "Nightcap?"

Enjolras acquiesced.

She sipped the wine and started coughing. "Oh shit, yeah, it's been open for a while," Grantaire said. "Uh, let me – oh, shit," he said again, to himself. "Let me – I have some – here!"

It was a bottle of cognac that was dusty, old, unopened, and looked like it had plausibly been bottled when the appartement was built. Enjolras exhaled. "Very well."

Grantaire, in this light, was uglier than in the street. Not by demeanour, which was trying very earnestly to be pleasant, but the simple facts of his face. His nose was all off, his mouth was crooked and his chin was the one preserving feature. He caught her look, again accurately perceiving her thoughts with it, and smiled wryly. "Why I became an artist," he said, waving at the room. "The eternal search for beauty." His gaze lingered on her face, and breasts, and waist, and lower; Enjolras remembered where his hands had been; her face went bright hot.

She knew she was attractive, or that people found her so. Mostly it was useful, as it meant they paid attention to her speaking; if they didn't care to listen to her after the first few minutes, well there was Combeferre and Courfeyrac to scoop them up, or others, or they didn't take. Enjolras could not have traded in her face and form, and saw no reason to – they were useful, like good type on a pamphlet, and so far any misunderstandings otherwise had been inadvertently incurred and sociably put off. 

Until tonight.

"Oh, Diana," Grantaire said, "no need to fear that from me." He tipped the glass of cognac down his throat and poured himself another.

There was an armchair, and Enjolras sat in it, settling in gently holding her drink at a right angle. Grantaire caught her watching him, or maybe she caught herself; he froze for only a moment, and then returned too casually to pouring his drink.

Enjolras held her own glass out. He brought the bottle to her, and his face asked a question.

Whatever it was, Enjolras nodded, nearly imperceptibly. In an instant, Grantaire was on his knees before her, cascading to the floor in one fluid motion that suggested the fall of an avalanche.

"May I," he said, and she nodded scarcely again.

Grantaire kissed her ankle. Enjolras set her glass aside.

"Diana," he said, and she frowned in the moonlight. "I must undo your trousers."

This was the work of a moment, but he pulled at the catch too hastily. Grantaire was trying, desperately trying, to show off, but was not quite able to rise to the occasion; he tugged the zipper down with clumsy fingers, and slipped the slacks down her hips. Enjolras kicked them off, impatiently – this was not the part that suited theatrics.

Grantaire placed his hands on her thighs and smoothed them, caressed them, reverently parted them, and placed a kiss over her underpants. He slipped a finger underneath – simply brushing, not presuming – and Enjolras hissed minutely through her teeth. Grantaire nodded at that, as if in understanding or some new knowledge, and brushed the fabric back.

She sat back, her hands on the armchair, waiting for him to make a move; with her nod, Grantaire hooked his thumbs in and slid her pants down, Enjolras lifting her hips. He caught her before she could settle again, his hands under her buttocks, and tested the flesh there for a bit, squeezing and savouring before running another finger along her cunt.

Her breath hitched, and she found her fingers squeezing the worn weave of the chair; but otherwise made no acknowledgement.

Grantaire nodded again, like someone taking on a difficult task. He parted her legs, more firmly this time, holding her apart with his hands – Enjolras cast one quick side look to be sure the window coverings were secure – and dipped his head to her.

At first he only kissed lightly, attentively. He brushed her with his lips. He inhaled her. He nuzzled gently and found his way around her. Enjolras could not find herself distracted by anything else; her heart beat faster and her breath hitched with every liberty he did not take. The moment stretched on, as Grantaire meandered around her, taking the time to breathe in and know every part of her.

Then just as she was about to find her voice and say, "For god's sake, get on with it," he lifted his head just enough to thoroughly wet his finger in his mouth, and then slid that finger inside her, and in the same moment affixed his mouth and sucked.

Enjolras could not help the soft, raw groan that came from her throat. Grantaire surely heard it, as his grip flexed on her thigh. He moved that finger only gently; his main attention was on her nub. He licked a focus to a tight white heat, and then withdrew, cupping circles around it with his tongue, spending lavish time on all of her.

Enjolras had promised herself she would stay aloof, and detached; that this was only a way to spend the time tonight, and repay the favour; but she could not help the heat and tightness that rose in her chest, from her cunt, circling around her heart and constricting her breathing. It came in shorter gasps, as Grantaire fucked her with a finger and paid exquisite attention to her nub; his tongue licked her into delectable wetness, and pulsed her into real need. Enjolras reached out with both hands, grabbed his hair and pushed Grantaire's face into her cunt.

Grantaire whimpered, his mouth fully enveloped in her, and for a flash she worried she was hurting him. But no, he was still lavishing attention on her, still whipping back and forth with his dextrous tongue, and Enjolras clenched her hands in his hair, rucked her knees up around his neck and forced him up against her.

His hips twitched under hers, and he licked with increasing insistence. Grantaire's finger explored her, opened her up, gave her cunt an object to twitch and pulse against. He crooked it inside her and she tilted her head back, tasting his brandy in the back of her mouth, feeling him completely give himself over to her.

The pulsing rose, increased, carried her over. Enjolras gasped, once, sharply; and held him against her as she rolled through it, grinding into his face.

A long moment; she opened her eyes.

Grantaire was on his knees in front of her, looking stunned. His lips were blown and swollen, and he passed the back of his hand over his mouth. Enjolras twitched again, watching him.

"I, uh," he said, looking down and swallowing. "Sorry."

There was a wet patch spreading on the front of his jeans, and Enjolras blinking came back to herself, and the room. It was surely after one o'clock, maybe even two, and her throat was dry.

"Not at all," she said, hearing herself sound crisp and formal. "Thank you very much."

Grantaire started to say something, and shook his head and laughed – at himself, not a shared laugh.

"I'm just going to, uh," he said, and went around the corner to the small toilet. She heard the bidet.

Enjolras pulled her pants and her slacks, and stood up to button herself back up; all smoothed down, all presentable, nothing remarkable. She poured another glass of cognac and stood sipping it by the sink, smelling the soaking paintbrushes. By the time Grantaire returned she might as well have been at a gallery opening.

"Not a hair out of place," he said ruefully. He had not changed into new trousers – perhaps he didn't have another pair – and stood in front of her in a shirt, his long legs bare.

"Look, I-"

"The thing is,"

"You go first."

"No, you. Sorry."

"Look, the thing is," Enjolras said firmly, pushing her hair back over her shoulders with the hand that wasn't holding the cognac. "I appreciate your giving me a place to hide out."

"And the drink. And an orgasm," Grantaire said.

Enjolras' face went hot again. "I don't mean – the thing is, the kind of work I'm doing, right, I can't really have – entanglements. OK?"

"OK!" Grantaire said, a touch too chipper. "Though, you know," and she could see on his face that he was rolling downhill towards something, and couldn't stop it, and Enjolras didn't yet know him well enough to know what that was, "if you're going to go all women's lib about it, you don't need birth control. With me. I'm happy to just to – " and the red handprint her sharp palm left on his face cut off the rest of his sentence, though they both knew it would have ended, _to serve_. 

"You can't ever mention this," she said coolly. "The thing is, it might not be safe."

"Who'd believe me anyway," Grantaire said dryly, with no trousers on, gesturing at her, and him, and Enjolras was too angry at the implication to correct him.

"Thank you for the drink," she said, and left.

The next time she saw him, Enjolras told herself, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of blinking - no matter how hard he tried.


End file.
